


This Spaceship Doesn't Sail Itself

by WayWorseThanScottish



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aristocrat!Sherlock, M/M, lord holmes, mechanic!john, pretentious titles, prompt!fic, victorian space au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3209177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayWorseThanScottish/pseuds/WayWorseThanScottish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>thekneegrope on tumblr gave me this idea to write a fic featuring mechanic!john and aristocrat!sherlock.... in victorian space. so... yep. here it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Spaceship Doesn't Sail Itself

Watson couldn’t believe he had landed a job such as this. It was ridiculously fun, having cohorts like Stamford and Lestrade by his side. He had been a civilian repair mechanic for the past couple years, working on the cruise-spaceships here and there that came into his sister’s garage. Before then, of course, he had repaired fighter ships for her majesty’s army, fixing so many problems that he had become known as the ship-doctor. 

Well, of course, that was before he was called Four-Planets-Watson. What could he say? He was a great repair-guy and those ladies had ships that needed repair. And, of course, they were ever so grateful afterwards…

Anyway, he had considered himself lucky enough to work on the star-base Britain by his sister’s side, even if they didn’t always get along.  He had been working on a loose cog in a small fighter jet called Regent’s Park, when his old friend from his mechanical-engineering program visited him.

Stamford had grown laterally quite a bit, but that didn’t stop him from cheerily correcting  Watson . “You’d do better with a nine-volt cog to boost the engine a bit, so you can get the motor oil running smoother there, Watson.”

Watson grinned and stood up from where he had been squatting. He rubbed his sore leg a bit; he had seen a guy’s leg get trapped in a turbine and a few gears had whipped out and hit him in the shoulder. The medics had patched him up, but according to his therapist, it was due to the traumatic experience that he had a psychosomatic limp. To be honest, he hadn’t paid attention after hearing that he was going to be let go. “Respectful decommission,’ his arse.

“Hi there, Stamford. Where’ve you been the past few years?”  Watson asked, shaking Mike’s hand.

And that had begun  Watson ’s career on the S.S. London. It was a beautiful spacecraft, with ninety four civilian decks, forty two landing docks and one hundred and three thrusters. Of course, the size of the ship meant that there was a ridiculous amount of work to be done, by the least amount of engine-mechanics possible. Which meant great pay, no time off, and fourteen hour work shifts. 

The S.S. London was on a seven year journey around the neighbouring stars, allowing a few weeks at each space port and planet so that the passengers could see the best parts of the star systems. During these rest stops, the crew were allowed to take a break, get a good amount of sleep and clean up/refuel the ship while the majority of the passengers were exploring more exciting things.

On the plus side, Stamford, the chief engineer, hadn’t cared about  Watson ’s leg at all. He even let  Watson take two hour breaks to wander about the upper decks, so long as he dressed appropriately. The S.S. London had all kinds of sorts on board, from the aristocrats on the upper levels, to the butlers, maids, mechanics and chimney sweeps on the lower levels. 

Because of the fact that  Watson was only beginning his work on the S.S. London, he was on the highest engineering level, mostly sorting out small gas leaks and the odd loose gear. It was tedious, yes, but he supposed he deserved some tediousness after the  hectic planet he had worked o n called Afghanistan.  He could usually finish his tour of the level in the first three hours of his shift, which left eleven hours to do God knew what. 

Lestrade was the engineer who had the other shift, so they often chatted between shifts. He found the man had a dry sense of humour, and always something to complain about, whether it was civilians

or the technicians-in-training Anderson and Donovan which were under his tutelage. 

He heard some other mechanics complaining about the grueling difficult work in the lower levels, but he needed to work on the ship for at least a year before descending into the mechanical havoc. 

Watson had just finished checking the water pressure on a few of the steam-turbines, when he heard a yelp.

Alarmed, he looked this way and that through the mechanical debris. He really should organize some of the mess; the wires could have been hung better so he’d actually have good visibility. The first thing he saw was a silk top hat which had toppled to the ground in front of two gas tanks.

Oh, please let this not be a civilian. He had heard stories about some rowdy passengers daring each other to go farther and farther into the engineering levels. Usually nothing came bad about it, but sometimes a child would accidentally press a button and it would put the mechanics on high alert for days at a time. 

Yes, as luck would have it, it was a civilian. Still, a rather attractive man. Well,  Watson cleared his throat, he couldn’t really see much of the man other than his fine clothing that fit rather snugly around his posterior. Not that  Watson was looking. Of course not. The man must’ve been a distant relative of a giraffe though, he must’ve been quite a few inches over six feet. Not that  Watson was a good judge of height, standing tall at five foot five. 

“Sir?” He asked politely. It was definitely an aristocrat he was dealing with; no other class would dress so finely. “May I be of service?” Watson put down the wrench he had been holding, in favour of wiping a bit of the grime off of his face. A casualty of working with machines all day.

The man turned his head around awkwardly, stuck as it was between two eight-foot tall gas tanks. “Er, yes, thank you. I seem to be… stuck.” The man blushed prettily, which was usually not how  Watson would describe a man, but his long aristocratic face, aquiline jaw and sharp nose gave way to soft curling hair and rather feminine lips. H owever, h is piercing gaze left no question that the man was not to be trifled with. 

Watson shook himself out of his starry-eyed gaze, and squeezed himself between the two tanks along beside him. 

“How was that supposed to help?” the man accused, raising his head haughtily. The effect was overall diminished by the fact that it was rather hot in the engineering levels, and the man was sweating heavily.

“Well, I can, er, crouch, and you can probably climb atop me to get above the gas tanks? Um. Sir.”  Watson said awkwardly, not breaking eye contact with the ridiculously handsome man. “And I’m small enough to get out on my own. Probably.”

The aristocrat nodded, his curls bouncing freely.  Watson crouched, blushing slightly as his head neared the stranger’s crotch, and went on his hands and knees. The man grimaced and put his hands on either side of the tops of the gas tanks, then took a brief step on  Watson ’s back. Good lord, the man was light.  Next thing he knew, the man had scrambled overtop of the gas tanks giving  Watson another good look at his backside.

  
“You’ll be getting out then, yes?” The man called over his shoulder, inspecting a wiring panel.

Aristocrats. Absolutely no care for the less fortunate.  Watson gritted his teeth and jumped, his hands just grasping the top of one gas tank. He wasn’t concerned about them leaking;  they had gone through much worse damage than a short man climbing them. He pulled himself heavily up the top of the tanks, panting slightly, then jumped off on the clearer side, swinging briefly from some piping to shorten his fall.

“Have you seen anything strange around these parts recently?” the man asked, looking briefly over  Watson ’s form. 

Watson straightened his posture under the man’s scrutiny and shook his head. “No sir, we haven’t even had any civilians down here in the past month. The wiring has been acting up in section four, but that’s to be expected with the recent increase in velocity. Sir.”

The man nodded. “I see. You’re a mechanic by trade, though I’m sure you should be head mechanic with your years of expertise in the field. You were a part of her majesty’s fleet of  fighter jets, probably working o n either the Afghanistan  planet or the Iran star base. You’re new to this ship, only arriving in the last six months. Before then you were working at a garage, but you left because of your brother or your father. Maybe you don’t like their smoking habit. More than likely you dislike their life choices, as they’ve split from their wife. You crave excitement and you detest the dull life at your old garage, joining this ship in the hopes of more challenging matter, only to be let down.” The stranger nodded again, more assuredly. 

Watson ’s  mouth was agape. How had this beautiful stranger deciphered that? “That was incredible. Amazing! How did you do that?” he caught himself. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir.”

The stranger frowned. “That’s not what people normally say.” He said quietly.

“What do people normally say, sir?”  Watson asked kindly.

“’Sir would you kindly cease your accusations?’” the man smirked. “I usually deduce something less than complimentary about someone.”

Watson laughed. “Well you’re not entirely right.” He paused. “Sir.”

The man frowned again. “Do stop calling me sir. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

Watson nodded seriously. “Yes, Master Holmes,”  Watson smiled slightly when Holmes caught his eye.

Holmes smiled genuinely. “Intelligence and wit, what a delightful combination in a companion. ” Watson blushed under the praise. Did the man know no bounds? “ Though, if you want to be accurate, Lord Holmes would be the more appropriate moniker. I own the better portion of S.S. London, in which resides the Baker sector. Though in all honesty, do call me Holmes, I much prefer it to any title.” The man nodded, contented. “Wait, didn’t you say that I had missed something? What is it? There’s always some flaw…”

Watson pursed his lips. He was speaking to a lord, for God’s sake. Should he really be pointing out flaws? Ah well, he couldn’t be kicked off the ship until they landed at the spaceport he came from,

otherwise the company would have to pay for his journey home. Labor laws were wonderful that way. 

“Uh, well, you see, Holmes… Um. Yeah. It’s my sister’s shop. Garage, I mean. I don’t have a brother. She has recently divorced from her wife Clara, though, and she does smoke, much as I hate it. My sister’s name is Harry, short for Harriet,” Watson explained, maintaining eye contact boldly. The aristocrat didn’t even look away, which was odd.  Holmes had beautiful eyes, smoky grey like the steam rooms around them. 

Holmes nodded, his eyes perceiving Watson’s discomfort. “You see, I’ve introduced myself, as polite gentlemen do, and I’ve learned so much about you. May I be so bold as to ask you your name?”

“Watson. John Watson. Engineer, mechanic, ship-doctor extraordinaire at your service,” he answered with a sly smile.

“Well, Watson, I’m going to need your help in the coming days. As it is, I think I’ve exhausted my mental capacities enough for one day. I’d still like to know more about you, however. What do you say we head up to my suite? You won’t be in any trouble, and this area doesn’t need the amount of engineers working on it anyway.”

Watson frowned, about to protest.

“Come along, Watson, there are stories to be told!” the dazzling man walked away, and what could Watson do but follow?

 

 

 


End file.
